The Stranger
by TaheenKiller19
Summary: Centuries afte Redwall's defeat by Cluny, a lone gunman wanders into the Abbey grounds. Has he been to Redwall before? Why has he come in the first place? Read for more, and then R&R.
1. The Ploughing Field

Merdigo Ferez the overlord was having one of the more annoying days of his life. Once more, his charges were slowing up more than usual.

The lanky weasel was watching the woodlanders plowing the fields when a young mouse had collapsed with the heat. Merdigo had had to order two squirrels to run and get water for the unfortunate peasant. He'd been revived, but the punishment for falling asleep on the job was absolute: A full day's work and forfeit of provisions for that day.

Merdigo sighed. This field was the farthest from the Abbey. Getting the proper amount of equipment out to the border on Mossflower Wood was all but impossible. This was the second day that the weasel would be unable to get them to work without losing one of them.

He eased the ten-gallon hat off of his head, scratching his laborious fur underneath before replacing the hat. Once more, he would be short of the "recommended" amount of labor, all because of his worker's failure.

Not that this was a serious offence. Merdigo was notorious for maintaining his work ethic. A day that was below average always was followed by one above average. However, if he were to allow himself to slack off like other overlords, things could get ugly. Repeated failure never went unpunished around Abbeytown. And although he had never been brought before Mortenoir in his life, his curiosity over the Supreme Overlord of Abbeytown was cancelled by his love of his own life. Mortenoir's visitors tended to end up dead.

He sniffed, and returned to work. "Hey, get him up and get back to the plow!"

The pathetic mouse rose unsteadily to his feet, balancing himself on his plow before urging himself onwards. The plowing resumed.

Merdigo leaned back in his lawn chair and watched them. There was something very relaxing in watching the woodlanders work. The poetic life of labor they led was to be admired…but not envied.

Something caught his eye on the left of the plowing field. Somebeast was walking out of the wood.

Merdigo was far from naive, but in all his twenty-two seasons he'd never seen anyone outside Abbeytown.

The figure drew closer, materializing out of the haze of a warm summer day like some restless spirit. His very way of gliding across the plains seemed ghostlike, in fact. Without any regard for the peasants, he strode across the field and towards the weasel, like oil over water.

It was then that Merdigo got his first good look at the beast. He was tall and slender, with chestnut brown fur that was tipped with black at his ears, his paws, and his hindquarters. He wore a faded tan duster over equally-unremarkable black jeans and shirt. His hat was a plain black preacher's hat, flat and wide. A thin scar lined his left eye, over which a black eyepatch was worn. His remaining eye was a piercing emerald green. Slung over his back was a dull brown haversack.

And he wore a gun.

Merdigo could not see the gun itself, but the telltale leather belt worn low with loops holding shining brass cartridges was a telltale sign as any. Many of the loops were ominously emptied of bullets.

All in all, he was a very intriguing…a very interesting…

Merdigo was far from stupid, but he realized that he had no idea what sort of creature this was. The ears were pointed yet upright. The fur was lustrous yet sleekly pressed against his body. His tail was flat and board-like but still bushy and rich-furred.

It would have been hard to call the stranger anything at all, not a weasel, a stoat, a fox, a ferret, or any kind of woodlander. He just was, whatever species he belonged to.

But the gun worried him. A non-overlord carrying iron could only mean trouble.

Slowly, Merdigo reached for the lever-action shotgun under his chair.

"There's no need for that," came a voice, corpselike in tone.

It was the stranger. "All I want is a little water, if you've got it."

Merdigo was convinced that this creature was some kind of woodlander, even through he didn't look it. Maybe some kind of land otter, or a squirrel, or…

Merdigo realized how fruitless labels were. But it was time to put this intruder in his place.

"Hey, how come you're not working? Sundown's a long way away, woodlander. Maybe you wanna give us a hand, before you get reported, runt?" sniped the weasel.

The insult seemed to pass completely beyond the stranger's hearing range. With a small movement of his (rather clawlike) paws, he began rolling a small cigarillo across his arm. With a flick, he struck a match with one of the claws on his other paw, lighting the small cigar. He proceeded to drag on it pensively.

"I'm not a woodlander, pal. I'm just kind of thirsty right now, got any water or not?"

Merdigo was tired of this insolent…whatever he was. His hands were already around the handle of the shotgun, and he whipped it in the direction of the stranger and fired.

Unfortunately, he had disappeared.

The massive crack of the sotgun recoiled against Merdigo's shoulder painfully. The massive sound of the shot echoed off the trees of Mossflower, and then silence followed.

Merdigo stared, thunderstruck. He had been there, he had been right there –

He froze as he heard the double-click of a revolver's hammer directly behind his head.

"That was damn stupid of you," came the disembodied voice of the stranger, icy and emotionless.

Merdigo gasped as he felt a cold ring of metal touch the back of his skull. _I'm dead_, he thought.

The cold revolver barrel was retracted, and suddenly Merdigo felt a sizzling, burning sensation across his neck. He screamed in pain.

The stranger stopped pushing the lit cigar into the back of the slavedriver's neck. "I'd like some questions answered. Sound good?"

"Fuck you," snarled the ornery weasel.

The stranger pressed the burning tip of the cigar against Merdigo's ear this time, causing another shriek of pain. "Make this easy for me and it's easy for you. Is Mortenoir still in charge?"

"Yes," gasped Merdigo.

"Is there an ottermaid by the name of Miriam McCall living in Abbeytown?"

"I – I don't know, maybe?"

Another burn came. "Yes or no."

"Yes. She lives on the northern side of town."

"Who's your commanding overlord? Who runs this side of the fields?"

"A ferretess. Rosa Munoz."

"Thank you. May I suggest you leave now?"

Merdigo felt the shotgun being wrenched from his grasp. The double-click came again as the stranger lowered the hammer on his gun.

Merdigo gasped with relief.

"Turn around, weasel."

Merdigo did. What he saw was a nightmare.

The stranger was standing there, his colorless coat fluttering in the wind, his one green eye seeming to pierce Merdigo's very soul. He held in one hand the shotgun, and in the other he held the most magnificent revolver Merdigo had ever seen. The flat hat on his head ruffled slightly in the breeze as he spoke.

"I know that the first thing you'll do will be to find your masters and tell them about me. And that's fine, I like reputation. But know this: Make trouble for me and there is no word to describe the destruction I will inflict upon you. Now git."

Merdigo did, running without a break, and without looking back once. He just wanted to be clear of this insanely wily creature. As clear as he could be.

--------------------

Back at the field, the stranger noticed the peasants looking at him in awe. "What're you looking at?" he said sullenly.

They said nothing, too afraid to speak.

He put down the shotgun, and slid the six-shooter back into its holster on his hip. "You can all can take the day off. I'm not gonna make you work."

Slowly, not entirely trustingly, they filed off the field, looking incredulously at this indistinguishable creature that had, in the space of a minute, upset the entire order of things.

He sat down in the lawn chair Merdigo had vacated, slid the wide black hat over his face, and slipped off into a light sleep.


	2. Into Town

_Alura Quinn stood outside the hut on the edge of Mossflower Wood, watching her son playing in the small stream._

_She was the image of an ideal ottermaid: Tall, sleek and powerful, with the shining fur that hotroot soup brings. Her eyes were a soft, warm brown, like chocolate, and just as comforting._

_Her son, Gideon, was playing in the water with a toy wooden gun. Already, he was developing the lustrous fur that was easily recognizable as his father's. He was a healthy, happy Dibbun, the ideal Abbeydweller…had he been one._

_Alura let this last thought pass with some bitterness, but let herself ignore it. It didn't do to dwell on the past, and on things that couldn't be changed. She, Dirk and Gideon were on their own, and that was that. They were exiled, and that was that. As long as they were happy, that was all that mattered. And happy they were._

_Her husband, Dirk, stepped outside the hut, as Gideon had just let out a whoop of delight as he smote another imaginary foe with his wooden pistol. "What're you up to, son?"_

"_I'm fighting the desperados, Dad, wanna help? They're pretty tough!"_

"_Grr, no son of mine is going to face bandits alone!" growled Dirk in mock ferociousness, grabbing a thick branch as though it were a rifle, charging into the imaginary fray of robbers._

_As they battled against the mock foe, Alura smiled. There had been times when she had almost believed her family and the things they said about Dirk. He was, after all…what he was. But it was times like this, the way he interacted with his family on this loving, caring level, when she knew that they had all been wrong about him. Nothing could ever shake her faith in Dirk Quinn._

_Nothing._

--------------------

He had reached the outskirts of Abbeytown. Here were led the lives of the saddest creatures. The beggars, the exiles, the diseased, all those whose presence wasn't desired around the Abbey.

He passed through the shantytowns and the campfires of the hobos. Reaching a part of town that was more established but still low-down. Here one could find the gambling houses, the booze halls, and the brothels.

He sneered with the thought of an Abbey fostering whores. What a world.

He was still thirsty, and Merdigo hadn't given him any water. He rolled his one eye like a searchlight over the various drinking holes before him. Not much had changed, after all.

His tongue rolled the thin cigar across his cracked lips as he saw one that was as good as any. He brushed the dust off of his heavy coat that was the color of sand and walked in.

The interior smelled of sawdust and whisky. It was calm enough, but the stranger's imagination could easily picture a Saturday night knife-fight happening here. The walls were sturdy but unpainted. All of this establishment's money had gone into the supply of drink behind the bar.

The barmaid was a particularly pretty ottermaid of about twenty seasons with unusually reddish fur. She wore a green dress that was neither plain nor utterly showy, and her eyes were a soft emerald. She gave him a cursory, businesslike glance as he sat down at the bar.

"What'll it be, mister?"

"A glass of Scotch, please."

"Any label in particular?"

"Rakkety Tam, if you've got it."

Inwardly, she grimaced. One more tough guy who thought he could handle a glass of Tam. After all, no other drink created an angry drunk faster than the only brand of Scotch that kicked like a horse.

But to her surprise, the stranger didn't lose it. He just sat there, sipping the whiskey as though it were water.

When he had finished (without any sign of losing his cool), he withdrew a golden coin from within the folds of his coat and dropped it on the table.

She looked at it, incredulous. "I don't carry enough change for that, sir."

He looked at her, his one eye boring into her. "Keep the rest for yourself."

Ordinarily, she would have thanked him (she had been raised a gentlebeast, after all), but there was something distinctly hostile about this beast that she found herself mumbling something and returning to the other customers.

The stranger, meanwhile, was lost in thought. Abbeytown was not very different (save a few unimportant details) from his last visit. Mortenoir was still in power, as expected. The overlords were as oppressive as ever, and the woodlanders were every bit as spineless.

It was times like these that he was glad not to belong to either group.

It was while he was concluding this last thought when Merdigo Ferez entered the bar, followed by Rosa Munoz, the regional overlord of the northern side of Abbeytown.

Rosa was a ferretess, and every bit as pretty as the barmaid. But whereas the barmaid's beauty was an innocent, caring, kindly beauty, Rosa's was a haughty and cruel sex appeal, the kind that only comes from a girl living her life via the abuse and shunning of others. She was dark, with sneering brown eyes, and immaculately white teeth. She was about thirty seasons old, and her appearance indicated she had spent all of them putting down those she commanded as an overlord.

Rosa wore a flashy black and red dress, the kind more suited to dancing than a bar scene. Rosa's sexual appetite was renowned across the northern part of town, especially her trysts with the local woodlanders. It wasn't as though the unfortunate workers had any choice: refusing Rosa meant death.

However, Merdigo presented the real threat. The weasel had re-armed himself with a sawed-off shotgun, and the stranger realized that if he got the chance to use it, the weasel would virtually disintegrate him at this close range.

He pulled the flat preacher's hat low on his head, and kept his gun paw low under the counter by his holster.

Silence followed. Wherever Rosa went in this part of Abbeytown, she commanded the respect of everybeast. Failure by anybeast to do so would mean a punishment beating - or worse.

The stranger slowly pulled the hammer back on his gun, still in its holster, and waited.

Rosa's harsh voice rang out. "You!" she cried in recognition.

_This is it, _the stranger thought, bracing himself as Merdigo and Rosa came towards him. His paw closed around the butt of his revolver.

But the two overlords rushed past him, bringing themselves down on the unfortunate barmaid.

Rosa rushed up to the ottermaid, slapping her hard across the face. The otter gave a small wince of pain, but otherwise didn't let the pain show.

However, Rosa then took out a set of brass knuckles and really laid into the ottermaid. The sadistic ferret put her metal-fortified fist into the barmaid's chest.

With a gasp, she went down, the wind completely knocked out of her. Rosa began kicking her in the ribs, until the otter could do little more than gasp and sob, utterly motionless on the dirty bar floor.

"You owe me six ounces of silver for last week, woodlander! You gonna give it to me? Do I have to hurt you more?"

Rosa was about to give another crushing punch with the brass, but a paw whipped out across the bar, grabbing her wrist so tight it was numb in seconds.

The stranger took the brass knuckles off of Rosa's numb paw and laid them on the table. "I think you've made your point, marm," he said evenly.

"Who the hell are you?" spat Rosa.

The stranger's voice kept the same placid tone. "No need for profanity, marm. I just asked a question. Just tell me how much you need from the otter."

Rosa's face contorted in fury. "Nobody – I mean nobody – talks to me like this."

The stranger heard both hammers on Merdigo's shotgun being pulled back as the weasel shoved both barrels of the sawed-off into the stranger's back. Inwardly, the stranger cursed himself for allowing himself to ignore the weasel's prescence.

"This is the guy I told you about, milady. He took my gun and made me run from my post this morning."

Rosa smirked. "Not so high and mighty now, eh? But since you're interested in how much money she owes me, how much silver have you got on you?"

Slowly, the stranger reached into his coat and withdrew another gold coin. "Is this enough?"

The greedy eyes of Merdigo and Rosa followed the coin, captivated by both its beauty and its value.

Just then, the stranger flicked the coin into the air. Aghast, Rosa's and Merdigo's eyes still followed it as it flew above them.

It was then that the stranger took advantage of the distraction. With his right paw, he grabbed Merdigo's gun paw, pushing the shotgun towards the ground. With his other paw, the stranger powered his fist into Merdigo's jaw.

There was a crack as Merdigo's jaw broke, and the weasel dropped backwards, completely unconscious. The stranger kicked the shotgun away from his limp form.

Slowly, he walked over around the bar, helping the weak ottermaid off the floor and onto a stool. He took from behind the bar a bottle of brandy, and filled a large glass, passing it to the barmaid's paw. "Drink some of this," he said, not passionately, but not emotionlessly either.

The warming beverage seemed to have immediate effect on her, and after several gasping breaths, she relaxed visibly, passing out shortly thereafter.

Rosa was still standing behind the bar, almost next to the stranger. Slowly, she began to reach for the small skinning knife concealed in her ample bosom.

Before her paw was halfway down her cleavage, she found herself staring down the barrel of the massive revolver, which had seemed to appear into the stranger's outstretched hand in under an instant.

"Don't even think you're in my league for speed, sister," the stranger said patronizingly.

"You have absolutely no idea who you're fucking with here," growled Rosa. "I am a regional overlord. I report directly to Mortenoir's court, and when he hears of this insult from a woodlander –"

"I am not a woodlander."

It was then that Rosa fully appreciated that she knew absolutely nothing about this beast – not even his species.

The stranger continued. "I'm just a gentlebeast making a stop for a few days, trying not to upset too many people along the way. What I say now is exactly what I said to that weasel this morning: Get in my way and I will raise hell for you."

She smirked.

"Think I'm joking?" shot the stranger, his gun paw twitching.

"You're a gentlebeast, ain't you?"

"Exactly. So you can expect me to let a lady such as yourself leave here with her life." He put just enough irony in his tone on the word "lady" to get his point across.

"Pathetic," she said, making for the doorway.

The stranger kept his gun leveled at her the whole time.

As Rosa reached the Dutch doors, she turned dramatically. "You're a true gentlebeast – at least for a piece of half-breed drifter trash, you are."

The effect was immediate. Almost faster than Rosa could see, the stranger was right behind her, his gun still out, point-blank against the side of her head, and his other paw clasped over her mouth.

"I said I'd let you go, but now you've really pissed me off," he snarled in her ear.

He dragged her backwards, as if she weighed no more than a ragdoll, kicking open the door to the backroom of the bar.

He slammed the door behind him, throwing her on the cold, moist floor of the storage room. She fell audibly, with a soft "oof" coming from her lips.

He pulled back the hammer on his gun again, so she could hear it in the dark. The click echoed off of the solid walls.

"What happened to 'I don't kill the ladies', Mr. Gentlebeast?" she leered.

Silence followed, soon broken by a snigger that seemed to be coming from right in front of her.

"Who said anything about killing?" came a mocking voice.

In the darkness, Rosa Munoz felt something metallic touch her chest, cold and sharp. With dread, she felt her dress being cut away from her body.

With a low moan, she slumped backwards on the cold earth, now knowing exactly what the bastard had in mind. She gritted her teeth.

And then he was on her. Her hindpaws were spread forcefully, and then his onslaught began.

It would have been hard for Rosa to say if it lasted five minutes or five hours as she was raped into hysterics…

---------------

Out in the bar, the woodlander customers all listened to Rosa's moans and grunts with wry smiles upon their faces. Rosa had been a bully, and seeing her being bullied was enough to make anybeast's belief in justice fortified.

A little while later, the stranger reemerged, carrying the sobbing Rosa over his shoulder. He passed the still-unconscious Merdigo, scooping the weasel up and placing him over his other shoulder.

All in all, his strength was remarkable, if he was a woodlander.

He kicked open the Dutch door with his heavy riding boot. By now, a crowd had gathered outside the bar, looking for any bits of gossip in town.

The stranger threw the ferretess and the weasel into the gutter and went back inside.

By now, the barmaid had regained consciousness at the table. She looked up. "What happened?"

"You don't want to know," came the placid reply.

Normally, she would have asked anyway, but looking at this fearsome…whatever he was, she believed him. She remained silent.

"You're kind of banged up, but it's nothing a couple days in bed won't solve," he said, examining her.

She laughed. "I haven't got a couple of days. I need to tend this bar."

"I'll take care of it for a little while, if you want."

This surprised her. "You know how?"

"I did it once before. I should be okay for two days."

"Where are you staying?"

He smiled, a meaningless movement of his face. "Nowhere yet."

"I rent rooms here. Half an ounce of silver a night." She smiled at him. "But since you've saved me and you're looking after my bar, I'll give it to you half-price."

"Thank you," he said.

"My name's Miriam, by the way. Miriam McCall."

There was a sudden flicker in the stranger's eye, as if the name meant something to him.

"Do you have a name, or what?" Miriam asked.

"Do I need one?"

She thought about this. "No, maybe not."

"Can you walk?"

She grimaced. "Not well."

He picked her up, bridal-style, and carried her up the steps of the bar to her room, depositing her on the single bed in the room. She was asleep in moments.

After inspecting the rooms, he selected one that was neither too large nor too small. It had a bedroom, a cloakroom, and a side room with a small kitchen and a washtub. However, he selected it mainly because of the lone window in the kitchen, which overlooked the Abbey itself.

He lay down on the bed, not sleeping but considering the circumstances of his return.


	3. Mortenoir

_The whole Quinn family was seated around the fire, toasting strips of fish on long wooden sticks. Dirk was humming an old overlord ditty to himself, Alura was staring into the fire, warm and content. And Gideon was wondering._

_Wondering had become a great pastime of the young beast. He wondered why you were always pulled down when you jumped up. He wondered how beasts had been fishing since before-time-began, and the silly fish never learned not to bite. He wondered how a clock worked. Every time he wondered about something, he asked his parents. Most of the time, neither one had an answer._

_But he always asked them anyway. After all, they were never unwilling to answer any of his questions, even when they didn't know. So he asked again anyway.  
_

"_Mummy, why can't we live in Abbeytown?"_

_For the first time ever, Gideon saw the look of remorse, sorrow and regret on the faces of his parents. Dirk spoke first._

"_We have to live here because my parents didn't like your mother very much."_

"_Why don't they like her? I love Mummy," said the curious Dibbun defiantly._

"_I do too. Anybody who knows your Mummy really well would love her," replied Dirk, tickling Alura under the chin, making her giggle._

"_So why don't they?"_

_Dirk sighed. "Because they didn't bother to see your mother for who she was at all. They didn't see her the way I did, so they told me to go away."_

"_But they're your parents. Shouldn't they love you?"_

"_Yes, but they couldn't accept my choices."  
_

"_Well, when I have children, I'm going to let them make all the choices they want," decided the young Gideon._

_Dirk laughed at his son's resolve, but inwardly he was thinking remorsefully. When Gideon got older, he'd have to explain this more, rather than the thirty-second version he had given. How could he tell his son about leaving the Hunter's life behind? How could he tell him of the heritage he had left behind? How could he explain the cruelty of his former life?_

_Dirk brushed these harsh thoughts aside, and kissed his wife on the forehead before helping his son with the burning bit of fish on his stick._

_Meanwhile, Gideon turned his head wisfully towards the sparkling little town, and though to himself: Someday I'll be in there._

_--------------------- _

At the center of town, like a ruby iris in a golden jewel, stood Redwall Abbey. Once, centuries ago, it had been the retreat for the cloistered order of woodlanders; a stronghold of stability, gentility and kindness in a cruel world. Now it was the lair of two separate entities that were all that was left of Redwall's law and order: The Overlords, and the Hunters.

Each task was simple and distinct from the others, all revolving around the labor in Abbeytown. The Overlords created labor quotas and oversaw the labor itself.

As for the Hunters, their task was different altogether. When dissent arose, or the status quo was impinged, the Hunters were there. Trained from the age of two seasons by their parents, a Hunter became a killing machine by the tender age of fifteen. Respected and feared across Abbeytown, they were the law. None dared cross a Hunter, for fear of death in the blink of an eye.

Above the Abbey was the Belltower. Once it had held the great Matthias and Methuselah bells. Now it was home to the most fearsome beast in all of Abbeytown.

Mortenoir.

Within the dark confines of the tower, he sat in an armchair that had once belonged to a blind old badger.

His very appearance was even more intimidating than his profession, which was saying something. Mortenoir was both the Supreme Overlord and the High Magistrate of the Hunter's Guild. He effectively commanded Abbeytown.

He wore a heavy black velvet coat that came down to his knees over a two identical gun belts. He wore plain pinstriped trousers and a black work-shirt. He wore plain black boots and equally black satin gloves. On his head was a tall silk top hat, from which hung a long black veil which obscured his face completely.

The only visible part of his body was his tail. Most foxes' tails are reddish brown with a white tip. Mortenoir's was black through-and-through, black as the ace of spades.

With his appearance, it was easy to see why he had earned his nickname: The Abbey Undertaker.

He sat on his throne, ebony tail swishing out behind him. From here, he could see all of Abbeytown, but in the darkness of the tower, it was all but impossible for any to see in.

The space below the tower had once been a home to the bellringers of the Abbey. Lately, it had been Mortenoir's chamber. Only one staircase led up here: Only one location of an assault.

Such was the thinking of Mortenoir, who had been the best Hunter of his time (second only to one whom he eventually bested): paranoid, suspicious.

From his perch in the tower he looked out at the stretch of territory that was indisputably his.

It ran far, wide, and varied – the banks, casinos and eateries of the rich south, and the more destitute north, the location of most of the labor in town.

"All mine," he muttered in a low, rumbling voice, like distant thunder.

The silence was inevitably broken by the entrance of Dougal.

Percival Dougal had once given up the life of a regular mouse laborer in return for seasons of service as Mortenoir's chief aide. For hours on end, he sat, adding up all the figures of the harvest totals, reporting them and other news to the masked fox periodically.

The orderly mouse rose up the steps to the tower, dressed in his usual orderly state: A three-piece suit, bowler hat, and a golden-rimmed monocle.

"What's new, Dougal?" said the fox, somewhat aggressively. He did not like to be disturbed while up here.

"I'm afraid something rather problematic has come up in Northtown."

Mortenoir said nothing, tacitly urging the mouse to continue.

"This morning, a drifter wandered into the Abbeytown border. He was armed, in contradiction to the law, and threatened a minor overlord. He then entered town, where he beat the same overlord unconscious and attacked Regional Overlord Munoz. By all reports it seems he…took her. It appears he is currently staying at the saloon where the last incident took place."

The fox said nothing at first. "It sounds like one of Rosa's lovers bit back. Was he provoked?"

"When he intimidated the overlord at the border, it seems the overlord fired his weapon first. At the bar, he was apparently threatened at gunpoint."

"What sort of woodlander is he?"

"Reports differ. Some said he was a steam otter, some said he was a squirrel. Lots even thought he was a weasel or a ferret."

"Interesting," mused the ruler out loud.

"What course of action do we take?"

"As far as the law is concerned, he did little wrong. The law upholds self-defense and provocation, as you know. However, have Rosa follow him wherever he goes; it'll make up for her causing the scene. If he makes trouble again, dispatch two Hunters to subdue him, and put him in the cellars."

The mouse bowed, and Mortenoir was alone again with the vast spread of his kingdom.


	4. Gin Goes Down Easy Here

_Gideon had said to himself that he would see Abbeytown from the inside, and so he had._

_He had snuck across the River Moss that morning, wearing a heavy trail jacket and a flat, wide hat he had found in his father's room. Nobody looked at him funny, nobody bothered him, nothing._

_The sights and smells of Northtown were every bit as exotic as he had hoped. With the small bit of silver in his pocket, he bought himself a bowl of the best hotroot soup he had ever had. It was spicy, yet not so spicy as to obscure the taste, which was sweet and zesty._

_Which was when he saw the Hunters._

_They were perhaps the most impressive-looking things he had ever seen. They wore plain leather coats over the black gun belts on their hips. Both were about seventeen seasons old Their demeanor was friendly and pleasant, as they were in the midst of telling jokes to one another, but even Gideon at twelve seasons could tell that beneath the jovial air was something coiled, ready to spring in an instant._

This is so awesome, _thought Gideon. _I get away from the shanties for one day, I eat the best soup on Earth, and I get to see real Hunters.

_He returned to his soup, pensive._

_That was when the overlord spotted him._

_The sneering stoat walked over to him. "Say, kid, aren't you Dirk Quinn's son?"_

_Gideon immediately sensed trouble. He stayed silent._

"_Course you are. No other half-breeds in Abbeytown."_

_Gideon had no idea what the stoat meant, but didn't ask._

"_D'you know yer dad was exiled under pain of death from town?"_

_Again, Gideon was silent._

"_And that goes for you, kid. Pain of death." The weasel took out a hunting knife, long, wide and razor-sharp. Gideon could see his reflection in the blade, apprehensive and terrified at the same time._

_The stoat made a swipe at his throat. Gideon instinctively pulled himself backwards, grabbing his half-full bowl of hotroot soup as he did so. The knife swished past his neck, slashing nothing but air._

_He threw the bowl straight into the overlord's face as he pulled back. As soon as the spicy juices hit the unfortunate stoat's eyes, the effect was immediate._

_The overlord screamed, dropping the knife in the dirt as he fell to his knees, pawing his eyes, trying to rid his eyes of the burning, stinging agony they now felt._

_Gideon was already on his footpaws, putting as much distance between him and the stoat as he could, but already the overlord was recovering and on his feet._

_Gideon was fast, but he was only twelve seasons old. The stoat was on his tail already._

_Looking over his shoulder at the stoat, he neglected to see the Hunter he ran straight into._

_Gideon collided so hard with the Hunter he was knocked on his back in the dirt. He looked up, awestruck, at the massive killing machine he had collided with._

_He found himself staring up at the form of the most massive fox he had ever seen._

_The Hunter was a fox, as all Hunters are, with simple black jeans, stovepipe boots, and a dark blue sarape covering his guns. Gideon noticed that his coat was a lush blend of Black, white, and grey, culminating in a jet-black tail. He wore no hat, an odd contrivance out here._

_The Hunter reached down and grabbed the startled Gideon by the lapels of his coat, pulling him forcibly on his feet._

_The overlord addressed the Hunter, "Lord, this little brat is a convicted exile. He assaulted me and fled capture, as you just saw."_

"_He's only breaking the law if he's in town without the permission of an Overlord or a Hunter," said the gray fox simply._

"_You – you mean – he's here under your protection?" spluttered the stoat._

"_Fully," stated the Hunter matter-of-factly._

"_In that case," said the stoat as though he had caught the fox into going back on his original story, "why did he run when I confronted him?"_

_The Hunter's tone was icy, utterly without emotion, passion or pity. "You pulled a knife on him. Wouldn't you run if it meant saving your life?"_

_The stoat just looked stupidly at the saturnine fox._

"_Why don't we find out?" suggested the fox. "Tell you what. My gun's not loaded. If you can run back to that table where you threatened the Dibbun before I've loaded it, I won't kill you. Sound fun? Start running."_

_At first the moronic stoat didn't know what to do. That was before the fox flung back his sarape, revealing an immaculately maintained black leather gun belt, complete with leather slots teeming with .45 cartridges._

_The stoat turned and ran for the table, only about ten paces away._

_Before he got three paces, the fox had whipped out the Hunter's revolver. There was a soft _click _as he eased a bullet into the cylinder, and another _click-click _as he pulled the hammer back._

_Gideon jumped at the noise the pistol made as the fox fired._

_The shot took the stoat cleanly in the right calf of his footpaw. With a startled exclamation, the unfortunate Overlord fell to his knees, a full four paces from the table._

_The gargantuan fox strolled over nonchalantly, utterly unfazed by the stoat's sobs of pain._

_He grabbed the stoat's cheeks, bringing his face no more than an inch from the fox's._

"_As long as I am still a Hunter of this side of town, you leave the Hunting to me. Your job is to oversee labor, nothing more. Leave breaches of the law to me. Do this again and you die. Blink if you understand."_

_The stoat did, several times. The fox let him go; he crawled inside the bar for help as soon as he did._

_The gray fox turned to the young Gideon, frozen in place with fear. "I'm not going to hurt you, Gideon."_

_The young creature breathed a sigh of relief. "How do you know my name?"_

"_Oh, didn't your father tell you? You were named after your grandpa. He said he'd always do that, when we served together."_

_Gideon cocked his head. "You knew my father?"_

"_Oh, absolutely!" said the fox. "We were thick as thieves, Dirk Quinn and me."_

"_I – I need to go home," said the still-terrified Gideon._

"_Oh, no problem!" said the fox with a cheerful tone. "I'll even take you there. No offence, but this isn't the best place in Abbeytown for a Dibbun to be on his own."_

_He put his paw around the young Gideon's shoulder. "Oh, and by the way, my name's Morgan. Morgan Vallance. Did you ever here the joke about the squirrel in the bar?"_

_Gideon smiled up at Morgan. "Never."_

"_Well, a squirrel walks into a bar and orders a glass of Scotch…"_

_They walked down the dusty street, back towards home with what seemed to be an old friend._

--------------

If anything, Miriam's business had taken a turn for the better.

Gossip had circulated around the small working-class section of Abbeytown like wildfire. This creature that carried big iron, and had dared to violate an Overlord…well, everyone wanted a glimpse of that beast. Miriam's bar was pleasantly full.

The stranger stood behind the bar, his one eye utterly emotionless. He wiped a shot glass clean, and poured himself a glass of Tam. Sipping it, he eyed the customers of the bar. If he knew the Overlords, a swift reprisal could be expected once Rosa went bleating to her superiors.

But the inhabitants were all woodlanders. While that meant he was safe from gunfire, he was not beyond the eyes of the Overlords. If there was one thing he had learned, it was that a woodlander was not automatically a friend.

However, he had to compliment himself. So far he had avoided a conflict with the Hunters.

He resumed his sentinel-like surveying of his clientele, and brooded over the current state of things.

--------------

Miriam sat up and looked at him. "We're out?"

"Completely out of gin, yes."

"But I just bought a whole case last week!"

"I seem to have attracted a larger clientele for you", the stranger said simply.

"Okay," said Miriam, accepting but not really believing. "Just run on down the street, take a right, and there's the brewery I get everything from. Take what you need from the till."

He smiled at her and walked downstairs again.

He didn't have it within him to make her pay for the gin, so he checked his own money purse for a gold coin and walked towards the door.

As he was leaving, he heard a slight sniggering noise coming from the tougher drunks in the corner.

He turned towards them, slowly.

"If I come back and find a mess, I'm personally going to beat you all to death."

That did the trick. The toughs shut up, and the stranger was out the door.

Rosa was standing in the middle of the street.

She had shed her black lacey fineries for a plain black blouse with blue jeans and a leather riding jacket. Over her back was a .22 rifle in a leather back holster.

Had she wanted to kill him, she would have reached for the rifle by then. Rosa was a creature of rage, not reason; she wouldn't have waited to have her revenge on him. The stranger deduced that she wanted him alive, for whatever reason.

By the way she was shaking from anger, he could also tell that it was her bosses who wanted him alive, not him.

_Alright, then,_ he thought. _I'll take advantage of this little protection I seem to have earned._

"Morning!" called the stranger in a jovial tone. "Out for a stroll?"

She didn't respond, unless grinding one's teeth counts as a response.

"You know, you really must take more care around here. There's all kinds of badbeasts out here who might like to take advantage of you."

Still no response. The stranger walked towards her, stepping onto the dusty street. "May I, perhaps, recommend an escort for you? Someone respectable? Not some bit of half-breed drifter trash that would violate you."

Still nothing. The stranger was enjoying himself. "I could recommend me. I do have a pretty face, if I do say so myself."

Rosa's paw began inching towards the stock of the rifle on her back. The stranger inched for his own gun. "Oh, please, Rosa, you're breaking my heart. I thought we really had a – connection yesterday. Something…really lasting." The stranger was now no more than a yard from her.

Rosa lost her self-control then. "You're disgusting," she spat.

The stranger smiled. "But Rosa – you were wonderful." And he kissed her, lips-on-lips.

It was a kiss of mock tenderness, the final insult to Rosa's already unbalanced temper. With a low growl, she let off a string of phrases, words, and contexts that do not deserve to be written here or anywhere else. After she was done, she breathed deeply. "I've been told not to kill you, but once I get the chance to –"

"Yeah, yeah," said the stranger. He sniggered at her, and then set off for the brewery. Rosa followed, still cursing him under her breath.

_The whore's just mad,_ he thought, _because I didn't come back for seconds yet._


End file.
